Septum Vitia Capitalia
by kookookarli
Summary: Pride. Envy. Gluttony. Lust. Anger. Greed. Sloth. Sherlock Holmes has committed every single one of them.


Betaed by the absolutely fantastic Chalcedony Rivers

* * *

Pride was something that Sherlock Holmes had in abundance. Very few people could actually fault him for it, as he had quite a bit to be proud of. He was intelligent in the extreme, and he made sure that everyone knew it. He also possessed a unique beauty. There was something alien about his features, but god damn it all to Hell if he wasn't drop dead gorgeous.

And he knew it too.

He used it to his advantage. When he was in University he would charm his dealers until the price was significantly dropped. After his allowance was cut he traded sex for drugs. He had mastered the art of sexuality. Though you wouldn't necessarily believe it if you had any sort of conversation with the man.

He only ever used it when he deemed it necessary. He was no longer addicted to narcotics, but rather he was addicted to the chase. He solved cases. Many times – such cases would involve manipulating people into handing over classified information.

Sherlock Holmes had more than enough reason to be proud of his capability to manipulate even the most stubborn fool. He would use his large intellect, combined with his exotic looks, and the results would be perfect. The men and women would play perfectly into his hands – giving him what he desired.

…

Most people wouldn't associate envy with such a man as Sherlock Holmes.

He was above them all – in looks, intelligence, and confidence. Most people were under the impression that he had nothing to want for. But those people who assumed such things were wrong, dreadfully so. So, while he might have been in possession of material things and money and beauty, he was dreadfully lacking in the social department.

Now, he was more than capable of acting in a way that made him seem approachable and friendly – but that wasn't him. He didn't enjoy acting as such, and only did so for cases when it was deemed necessary. Due to this, he didn't have friends, and he liked to think that he didn't want them. Sure, he worked with Lestrade, but their relationship wasn't anywhere near a friendship. He might even have past acquaintances such as Sebastian Wilkes, who certainly couldn't be trusted enough to be called friend, but no one ever close enough to be referred to anything beyond that.

His own brother was his arch enemy.

People do have those in real life, in case you were wondering.

So, as Sherlock Holmes walked through his city at night, passing pubs full of people, overly affectionate couples, or people talking on their mobiles, a very small part of him was envious of the relationships that normal people had such ease forming.

Then the other, larger part of him scoffed and turned his head. He had no need for such dalliances.

…

No, Sherlock Holmes does not eat, sleep, or drink on a case. The only thing he focuses on is the work – everything else was only transport that wasted precious time.

However, once a case was solved, during those few days before boredom set it, it was a totally different story. He would leave wherever he was and return to the flat. Once he was safely located in Baker Street, he would immediately head to his bedroom and fall asleep for a minimum of twelve hours, very rarely ever stopping to remove his clothing beforehand. Other times, he didn't even make it to his room – he would simply pass out on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson would wake him and he would shuffle into his room and repeat the process on his bed.

He would wake up, sometimes two days later, and immediately take the hottest possible shower until the hot water ran out. He would clothe himself in silk pajamas (the ones that he wore only when he felt the need to indulge) once he had dried himself with the fluffiest towel, and return to bed.

He would wake up an hour or so later to the smell of a large breakfast. As much as Mrs. Hudson denied being his housekeeper, she did take care of both him and his flat. He would eat a minimum of two full servings before once more returning to bed.

After this process was finished, he would proceed to play 'music' on his violin, constantly complaining to all who would listen about his state of boredom.

…

Sherlock Holmes has a cold exterior, one he puts on when he is around anyone he isn't close to – which is everyone.

He may tone it down for certain people, such as Mrs. Hudson, but it's not often done. Those who are on a relatively friendly basis with the man know that it's exactly that, an exterior. They just don't care enough, or aren't confident enough, to break it.

So, when one meets Mr. Holmes, and they feel his ice, they don't expect the man to be capable of such a basic, human feeling of lust – of sexual desire.

But they're wrong, as they often are.

He is more than capable of being attracted to another individual, he has been. He may find something in their features or build that calls to him. However, he ignores such feelings and moves on with his life. He considers himself to be above the ordinary people because he chooses not to act on such baser feelings.

Though, in case you were wondering, he does have a type – short, blonde, and military.

And he may have a slight affinity for blue eyes.

…

Anger is something every person has felt at one time or another. They may have not have felt true anger, the burning hatred that so often characterizes villains in fairytales and other means of entertainment, but they may have felt a semblance of it.

That slight irritation that just grows and grows until suddenly it seems as if the world is out to get you. Or worse, that simmering anger that remains hidden until they finally snap – which so often results in the so called passion crimes.

They're tedious. Dull.

But no, Sherlock Holmes doesn't get angry – not in the conventional sense anyways. Sure, he is more than capable of feigning anger; sometimes it is the only way to get the much needed answers from a suspect. He gets irritated, frustrated, at his own boredom – the lack of anything to do.

But beyond that, he simply doesn't care enough to become angry.

There has only been one person to truly get under his skin, and it's not Moriarty.

Moriarty was interesting; he was a puzzle. Moriarty made him feel fear, made him feel doubt, and he was never bored, but he wasn't angry either. Even when he saw that he needed to orchestrate his death; it was more of an annoying delay than anything else. Sure, he didn't exactly appreciate the fact that he had to leave his life behind, but it wasn't boring.

The only thing that truly angered him was himself. He hated the fact that he couldn't find ways to cure his boredom. It made him so angry at times when he found that he couldn't properly convey what he feels or what he means because he doesn't understand it himself.

Emotions were never his strong suit – and that makes him angry. It makes him angry because he is that much further detached from the rest of the population.

Another thing that makes him a freak.

…

Sherlock Holmes was a very greedy man. He wanted, no he needed, to be the centre of attention. It might not even be positive attention, but he needed that. It was his weakness – the frailty of genius.

He needed an audience.

It was a dangerous trait of his, if he felt that the attention wasn't on him he would do something to make sure that it was. When he was very young, it was deducing the affair between his teacher and the head master. As he got older, it became the drugs.

He didn't even do it solely for that reason, or at least he didn't think that did. It must have played a larger part of it than he had thought, looking back on it. He had gone through quite a few recreational drugs before discovering his favored seven percent solution of cocaine. The first few had only slowed his thoughts and clouded his mind, but cocaine – cocaine sharpened it, it made everything faster and much clearer.

He hated it, really. It had ruined his life, before he learned how to hide it. He boxed for a while – you wouldn't necessarily know it by looking at him – but under his fine cut suits, he had a boxer's build, though slightly undernourished. However, the man in charge of organizing such event had a strong policy against drug use.

No more boxing for him.

So, he turned to other means to entertain himself. That was when Mycroft became involved. He promised to get clean – and then he didn't.

He was being followed whenever he left his flat. Mycroft was a fool if he seriously thought that Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell. And as much as he put of a façade of hating it, he loved it.

He loved knowing that there was always someone watching him, that he always had an audience.

He basked in it – the attention that was on him at all times.

…

While Sherlock Holmes was an absolutely brilliant man, one who was willing to go to practically any length to cure his boredom – he was also a very lazy one.

If he got into a mood, which as much as he denied it, he did very often – there was no way that he was moving anywhere for anything. If his sofa caught on fire, he would most likely either glare or pout at it until it went away.

Though, Mrs. Hudson was usually on hand for when such rare events actually occurred.

There was no need for him to move, in his opinion – and so he wouldn't.

…

So, even a man that was as untouchable as Sherlock Holmes had thoughts and desires as did everyone else. No, what made such a man different was what he did about such thoughts and desires.

He simply did nothing about them at all.

Or at least, that's what he liked to think.


End file.
